


A Day with Gracie

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: Diary, M/M, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2015 prompt: Day. Set soon after the birth at the Tony Awards. Blaine has taken a few months off to be Mary Grace's primary caregiver. He decides to keep an hour-by-hour account of a day alone with his 3-month-old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Blaine Wakes Up at Dawn with a Plan

_5 a.m. She’s awake. Not hungry yet—or noisy—but she will be. I slip out of bed and go get a little bottle ready for her. Keep the apartment dark, quiet; she’s just starting to mew when I’m back from the cold kitchen. I slip her out of her crib and tuck her between us in the warm bed. Quiet. Quiet. You don’t wake up; she doesn’t yell, just suckles away, one hand grabbing my pinkie finger so hard where I hold the bottle, her dark eyes shining in the predawn of late summer. I shout a silent hurrah when her suckles slow and her eyes slip shut. I lay a diaper onto the bed and gently roll her onto it, patting her back as I do so. The little bubble comes up without even waking her. I doze awhile with my hand spanning her back._

_6 a.m. Your alarm goes off. As you stretch and groan, you turn to see me watching you over the baby’s head of curls. You…_

“Blaine?” Kurt squinted. “What—are you _writing?_ How can you even see?” 

Blaine held up his combination pen and whispered, “It’s the Dream Pen Mama gave me for Christmas. It’s pretty cool; I can write in the dark. It’s like I can do Lumos! With the bonus that it didn’t wake you or the baby.” 

“Well—what are you writing? Is that your journal? Are you having trouble sleeping?” 

“Ha ha. I’m pretty sure you found me asleep on the living room floor last night at 8:30. No. Remember how I wanted to make a record of a day alone with Mary Grace? Today’s the day.” 

“And you’ve started already?” Kurt asked as he swung his legs out of bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. 

“Well, just when the little lady and I woke up. Wanna see?” 

He handed the pretty little diary over to his husband and slipped out of bed on his own side. Kurt carried the book with him into the bathroom as Blaine made a safe nest for their 3-month-old with the bolster pillow on one side and Rachel’s pregnancy body pillow on the other. 

He could hear Kurt chuckling as he brushed his teeth, and then he was standing in the doorway. “This is way more detail than I expected. But it’s really sweet. _You’re_ really sweet.” 

“Well, I know you’re insanely busy with the set design team this week, and you got home so late on Tuesday you missed the conference call, and you’re worried about keeping up on your blog—and WHY did we decide to go ahead with getting this play into production with a new baby in the house?” 

“Hmm. What does this have to do with the diary?” Kurt asked as he crossed to the closet. Blaine took his spot at the sink as their early morning dance began. 

“I guess…” Blaine spit out the mouthful of toothpaste. “I didn’t want you to feel like you were missing out. And, I don’t know, Mama says you forget these days; they go so fast.” 

Kurt slipped past his husband into the bathroom and started stripping for the shower. “Dad said he found this list my mom made one day when I was MG’s age. It went something like: 11 am Kurt in swing. 11:15 Diaper change. 11:30 am Start lunch. 11:35 am Nurse Kurt. 12:00 pm Start lunch again. 12:15 pm Kurt crying. Diaper change. Eat sandwich walking around bouncing Kurt…” 

“Sounds familiar.” 

Kurt paused as he dropped his pjs into the hamper under the sink. “You know I’m not the only one who’s missing out. You promise you’ll let me know if it gets too much. You know Shelby Corcoran is only a phone call away.” 

“Thank you.” Blaine breathed out; his hands were warm on Kurt’s waist as he pulled his husband’s lean body hard against his own and kissed him, soft and morning sweet. 

“You’re tempting me, husband of mine.” 

“That was sort of the idea,” Blaine murmured, as he sought Kurt’s earlobe. 

“I do have to meet the truck with Carla and Jamie at—oh, do that again.” 

He felt rather than heard Blaine’s chuckle. One warm hand moved from his waist to give his interested cock a friendly little squeeze, and then was gone as Blaine stepped back. 

“What do you say to French toast? We still have some of that maple syrup Carole sent in the care package last week. And we really have to eat some of these eggs. What was Rachel thinking?” 

Kurt sagged against the open bathroom door. “Sure. Go, go, you awful tease.” 

The little book was tucked next to Blaine’s plate when Kurt emerged from the shower, dressed for the day, and there was coffee waiting. Blaine stood at the stove, his own coffee mug near at hand, flipping the toast, his sleep-tousled curls flopping into his eyes and his plaid flannels riding low on his hips. Kurt pushed past him to pour cream into his mug from the carton in the fridge, then stepped up close to look over his husband’s shoulder. “Smells good. You take such good care of me.” 

Blaine leaned back. “It’s just my turn for awhile.” 

Kurt hummed in delight. “Do you think you can make it past 8:30 tonight?” 

“I guess that depends. Will you make it worth my while?” 

He pinched hard at Blaine’s waist. “Just for that…” 

“No, no. I promise I’ll try,” Blaine said, laughing as he turned quickly, grabbing at the offending hand. “I guess that’s partly up to our girl. But I have a good feeling about today.”


	2. In Which Carole Saves the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Klaine Advent 2015 prompt: Guide. Blaine's morning with Mary Grace feels like it's falling apart; family helps.

_7:30 a.m. She’s still sleeping. Oscar weaves between my legs as I wash the breakfast dishes, reminding me to feed him. I take my coffee to the laptop on the couch. I’d promised I’d try to get to those résumés today. I_ really _want to find a stage manager who will work with you without giving in or letting you do the job—and without wanting to kill you by opening night. Last time taught us that we’re_ both _happier if you wear fewer hats in the production. The traffic outside is constant, my only music until Mary Grace wakes._

_7:55 a.m. A squeal of brakes outside is matched with a squeal from the bedroom. Wish the bedroom wasn’t so close to the corner for about the millionth time since we moved in. Oscar picks his head off up my lap and runs under the couch. Goodness. She’s yelling now as I try to save my work and safely stow the computer._

_8:00 a.m. She is a screaming, angry, hungry mess by the time I get to her. “Oh, darling. Daddy’s here. Look, Daddy’s here.” Late summer, and it feels like it will hit 80 degrees again today. The bed that was so cozy at 5 is like a noonday Boy Scout tent now. I run my hand through her sweat-damp curls and carry her to the kitchen, humming under her cries. The pan of water I warmed at breakfast is cooling on the stove, so I dig one of the bottles of Rachel’s “liquid gold” from the fridge, and set it to warm._

_8:15 a.m. Her changing table is my old desk, and that branch of the tree that survives in the courtyard of the apartment block is her mobile; she reaches for it as the breeze blows its leaves in a dance. It’s pleasanter here than in the bedroom. This early in the day, the building still shades this spot. She is happier once I strip her sleeper and wet diaper off and run a cool washcloth over her overheated body. Her cries have faded to—what does Mama call them? Grizzles? She’s still hungry, but MG is a summer baby. She will always prefer naked. “Less is more,” you always say. I change her into one of those silly_ Jane Austen Sings _-inspired onesies Carole found on Etsy. I wipe her face and get one of her wide dramatic smiles, her big dark eyes so like Rachel’s. I snap a photo and send it to her Grammies—and to Rachel. **“Good Mornin’ New York!”**_

_8:20 a.m. I sit on the couch balancing the journal on one leg and Mary Grace on the other. She likes her breakfast bottle best this way, leaning back against my bare chest, straddling my leg. She drinks thirstily, greedily, but her eyes are wide, gaze intense. I don’t know what she sees. Maybe Oscar sitting on the coffee table, his tail switching as he watches us. She scratches my left arm rhythmically with her little fingers. Looks like we need to get the nail clippers out at bath time. That’s no fun._

_8:45 a.m. She’s on the colorful play blanket in the living room, feet kicking and head craning up as she scrabbles at the bright animals. I sit on the floor, my back to the kitchen half-wall to get the most benefit from the floor fan. I tap my toes to the beat as my_ Good morning, Gracie! _playlist fills the room. I have my laptop open again. “Okay, baby. Let’s see what Olli White has to offer.” It’s a good time, baby fed, gurgling happily. Maybe I’ll make a decision on this one by 9:30._

_9:00 a.m. Spoke too soon. I’ll see if I can re-create the whole mess. Oscar was playing with a thread hanging from the hem of my pantleg (I suppose that’s what he was doing anyway). I was a million miles away as my foot bounced away, my mind on the theater and whether Kurt should interview this candidate. Oscar snagged the thread and pulled hard, and tumbled himself over into the baby. There’s a tiny scratch on her ear where he scrambled away from her startled yell. God, she’s bleeding. I’m yelling at him, tears prickling at the sight of the blood and her yowling face. I go to pick her up and find that she’s had a blowout. How did I miss that?_ Christ, _I was right here. My hand on her thigh comes away baby poop. Then Oscar, backing away from all the noise his people are making, knocks over my water glass, and I almost drop her trying to rescue the laptop from the water. And I step into a wet spot of the rest of the poop blowout on the play mat. Oscar is back under the couch again, I’m filthy, and the notes I took on that candidate are probably gone, and my baby is screaming. Oh, and bleeding. And my phone is ringing._

Blaine digs the phone one-handed out of his pocket, looks to see who’s calling. A wave of relief: It’s Carole. He drops the phone on the counter and puts it on speaker. 

“Oh goodness, Blaine. Sounds like our little Jane Austen is sharing her opinion—loudly.” 

He’s surprised to find his own voice is full of tears. “She’s poopy and angry, and she’s bleeding. I’m the worst dad ever. She’s _bleeding,_ Carole.” 

“Well, that’s a little scary. How bad is she bleeding? Can you put pressure on it?” 

“I _could,_ but there’s poop on my hand, and if I touch an open _wound,_ she’ll die. God!” 

Carole sighed. “Blaine. Blaine. Were you trimming her nails again? You know the bleeding will stop soon.” 

“No. No. It was Oscar the beast. I don’t know, I think he stepped on her, but _I don’t know_ because I wasn’t paying attention, because I’m…” 

“Ooh! Is it a big scratch?” 

“No, no. He just nicked her ear, but God, cat scratch fever! And it keeps bleeding. I’m such…” 

“I’ve got a plan. Do you think you could stop insulting my favorite son-in-law long enough to hear my plan?” 

He sobbed out a little chuckle. “Carole! Sorry. I’m sorry. I—yeah.” 

“Good. Okay, can you take her into the bathroom?” 

“Yeah. Just let me get the phone.” 

As Carole guided him through easing the baby onto a clean towel on the floor until he could wash his hands, and talked him through cleaning the scratch, applying a tiny bit of pressure, inspecting it, then applying a tiny dab of Neosporin to the ear, he felt calmer. Mary Grace was still crying, but not as frantically now, as Carole’s gentle voice down the phone worked to stop the shakes in her Daddy’s hands and his fear and shame ebbed away. 

By the time he stripped her of the messy clothes, she was gurgling away again, happy to be naked, kicking away from her spot on the floor. He slumped down in relief on the closed toilet seat and swiped at his foot with a wad of tissues. 

“Better now?” Carole sounded amused and so, so fond. 

“Yeah. Now there’s just the issue that there’s poop everywhere. Where does it all come from?” 

She laughed. “I remember with Finn days when I felt like he was just a poop-making factory. All I did was change diapers. Of course, he grew so fast, and ate so much…I just couldn’t get it in him fast enough!” 

“I’m so glad I answered the phone.” 

“Oh, sweetie. You’re doing such a good job. That picture this morning—I saw a happy healthy baby girl. Now. What do _you_ need to feel happy—right now?” 

“Oh, a shower would do me wonders. I’m still in my pajamas, and now we have to squeeze a trip to the laundromat into our day.” 

“What about a bath for both of you? Just bring her bouncy seat into the bathroom and you can transfer her into it while you finish up your bath.” 

“That would work?” 

“Honey, I did it all the time with Finn. If I didn’t, the Board of Health would have been after me; I wouldn’t have been able to shower for like, the first year of his life.” 

After he hung up and got busy gathering supplies for a bath, he thought how lucky he was—how lucky they all were—to have the parents they had. Burt and Carole, Pammy—even his dad tried to help with his stiff advice. (“It’s like getting parenting lessons from Tolkien,” Kurt always said.) At Rachel’s Rosh Hashanah table, Leroy offered Kurt and him an open invite to his Gay Dad of a Beautiful Princess expertise. He didn’t have to— _they_ didn’t have to—go it alone, and he knew when he really listened, the message was always the same: You don’t have to be perfect. 

As he sat on the edge of the tub, checking the water temperature, Mary Grace wrapped in the towel on his lap, she chortled—her first real, honest-to-God laugh of delight. Yeah, it was still going to be a good day.


	3. In Which Blaine Runs Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Klaine Advent 2015 prompt: Number. Blaine means to get to the résumés, he really does, but real life with a 3-month-old intervenes.

_10:00 a.m. Carole was right about the bath; it was fun for her and calmed me right down. Mary Grace was happy in her bouncy seat, too, as I rinsed off in the shower, peeking out through the curtain to check on her. I get dressed for the day and in the living room, I add the little play gym to her seat as I go to work cleaning up the mess. And just like that, the morning settles back into its routine. I switch on WNYC and listen to Brian Lehrer’s show. I like to have the company of adult voices in the room, as long as the story’s not too sad or political. Mary Grace hates politics—and loud voices. She squeals and kicks her feet and bats at her toys, and I settle back on the couch to look through the résumés I’m supposed to evaluate. I set myself a goal to finish at least one before her morning nap. First, though, I write in this diary. This is important too._

_10:30 a.m. So Olli’s a no—I thought his name was pretentious anyway. Plus he’s British and maybe I’m petty after all these years, but NO. MG has started whinging, so I shut off the radio and get some soothing music going while I get a little bottle ready. She’ll probably only take an ounce or two now and then we can try the laundry run._

_10:40 a.m. Crap, I can’t take her out in just her diaper, can I? I hate it when my miscalculations mess us up. I lift her up out of her seat and she protests at the bottle not being offered. I grab a comfy sundress for her, check her diaper; of course, it’s wet. And by the time it’s changed and she’s dressed, she’s really not happy. I return to the couch speaking soothing nonsense and cuddle her close. I hope I haven’t pushed her too hard, but she’s just complaining, not raging, and the bottle changes her mood quick._

_11:00 a.m. Success. The warm milk gets her blissed out and dozy, and as I slip her into the Bjorn to go get the laundry, she coos and I kiss the top of her head. Allie from the park swears by getting errands done during morning naps. On the other hand, Constance, who’s contemplating getting leashes for her toddler twins, always says definitively, “SLEEP WHEN THE BABY SLEEPS. Are you nuts?” I mostly keep my mouth shut; their babies are older, so they MUST know more than me. And they’re women. There you go, Blaine, falling headlong into gender essentialism. Tina would be so annoyed._

_But anyway, here goes. By the time I’ve got the laundry sorted and pretreated (a tip from Carole from her days schlepping to the laundromat; have I mentioned how much I adore that woman?) Mary Grace is fast asleep. We’re up three flights, and her head bounces against my chest as I struggle to get the cart all the way down, thumping hard on each landing._

_11:15 a.m. I should ALWAYS remember to get outside. Like every day. I walk down two blocks and turn the corner into our shopping district to the Wash-n-Go. I must say hello to 20 people on the way, folks wanting to run their hands through the baby’s curls or asking after Kurt and what he’s up to. What WE’RE up to, I want to say, but—well, we can’t really talk much about it yet anyway. It’s a pleasant day, nicer outside than in the apartment; the breeze holds a promise of autumn and sweater weather. I hesitate at the bodega on the corner, then duck in, leaving the laundry cart by the door. At the counter with my iced tea, I order some lunch from Manny. And when I say, “I’ve got a load or two of laundry to wash, so, like, can I pick it up at noon?” he answers, “Why don’t I send my Ricky over with it? You know how the dryers are there.” I love this neighborhood. Let’s never leave, babe._

_11:30 a.m. While the washers run, I stake out a spot across from them on the folding table and prop up my iPad. She’s squirming a bit, and I rub her back and sway as I check out the next person on our list. Alice’s CV reads more like she’s an accountant than a stage manager, but it is true we could use someone better with the numbers side of this business. The laundromat is almost empty, so the only sound in here is the hum of the dryers, the thump of a pair of sneakers in one, and the sound of the game the only other customer is playing on her phone. The first washer pings at me, and I pull out the playmat and a few towels and transfer them to the big heavy duty dryer. It’s more money, but it’s worth it. I don’t have all afternoon, after all._

_12:00 p.m. Little Ricky shows up just as the first load, mostly Mary Grace’s tiny things, is done in the dryer. I pile the clothes on the table and sit on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs to wolf down my lunch—Manny’s transcendent guac tacos. My little lady does not take kindly to the loss of the swaying, and she complains, squirming and uncomfortable. I try to keep her happy by jigging my leg as I eat, but I have to give up. I toss the remains of the taco back in the bag and haul her out of the carrier to play with her. But now I have to figure what to do with her while I fold. I use a few of her thin little bath towels to make a clean space to lay her next to me on the table, and I talk to her while I hurriedly fold her clothes. “See, Gracie, here’s the little top Meemaw sent you—Meemaw sends you lots of pretty tops. And the hat from Quinn. Look: that chocolate ice cream stain from Uncle Sam got out. Do you want to wear it on the way home?” The other dryer beeps and I shift her up onto my hip, saying, “Now let’s see what’s in here.”_

_The other customer looks up as I pass her and says, “Hey, could you cut out all the talk? I’m trying to concentrate here.” I glare at her and thump the clothes one-armed out of the dryer and onto the table. “Would you prefer hearing her cry?” She frowns up at me and says, “She can’t even understand you. Waste of time,” and turns back to her phone. I wish she didn’t make me feel foolish, but she does. Suddenly I just want to get home._

_12:30 p.m. Mary Grace is hungry again, and I’m exhausted from hauling the laundry and her and the backpack up to the apartment. I dump our clean, unfolded clothes out onto our bed. Maybe we’ll get back to fold them, but I need to get her lunch bottle ready—and get her papa some more caffeine. It’s hot in the apartment, so I take my spot in front of the fan on the floor again and sit with my knees drawn up and the baby facing me as she greedily sucks down the bottle. She’s hot and thirsty, and so am I; I drink my iced coffee almost as avidly._

_12:45 p.m. Her tummy full and her diaper changed, we settle back down on the floor for book time. Mostly she grabs at the pretty colors. The weight of her against my chest is a pleasure as I read_ Brown Bear Brown Bear _and_ Chicka-Boom! _This is always my favorite part of the day. She vocalizes along with me at times, and her little hand swipes up and grips my chin as I read. I pull out the little book of poems my Dad gave us at her birth—my old_ Silver Pennies _from his library—and I read Vachel Lindsay and Walter de la Mare poems to her until she gets restless._

_1:00 p.m. I sing her down the hall to the bedroom and bounce her onto the bed as I get to work on the clothes. She has her snuggly bunny in her arms and she sucks happily away on his ears, kicking her feet as I sing to her. She likes Adele, but she’s really partial to the Sinatra I learned prepping for_ Who’s Afraid… 

He was halfway through the clothes, hanging some up, folding socks, assembling a pile that would need to be pressed before either Kurt or he could wear them (grumbling at the woman in the laundromat as he did so), when his phone rang. Kurt. He sat down on the edge of the bed, tickling Gracie’s belly as he answered. 

“How’s your day been, honey?” 

Kurt cut right to the chase, the stress of a difficult morning straining his voice. “I need help. And soon. There’s just too much to do here for one man.” 

“Well, we’re going to talk about it tonight, right? I can always work with the musicians, you know that. And…” 

“No. I don’t –I don’t need some _part-time_ help. I need a stage manager who knows what he or she is doing, Blaine.” 

Blaine pulled his legs up onto the bed, curling into himself a bit. “What happened?” 

“Jamie got the decade all wrong—they sent turn of the century lamps rather than 30s. She—“ 

He tried to listen, but the room was warm, and so maybe he yawned a little loudly. Kurt stopped speaking suddenly. Blaine tried for a soothing tone. “But it’s okay, right? You handled it. And we still have months before previews.” 

But Kurt was past being cajoled. It must have been a really tough morning. “Look. It’s not important. Just—did you get any names off the leads we had?” 

“Um. I’ve looked over—I’ve eliminated one because he’s a dabbler and, um, I’m thinking that we need to check the references on the second before I can recommend her.” 

“And?” 

He blew out a heavy breath. “That’s as far as I got. I thought I’d—“ 

“What do you mean, that’s as far as you got? I’ve been at work for _5 hours,_ Blaine, and you couldn’t even get through 5 résumés in all that time?” Blaine’s own temper flashed hot. “You know what, Kurt. NO. I couldn’t. You haven’t even asked me how my morning went. I’ll tell you: Not good. You told me we needed to make a decision on interviewing TONIGHT. I was planning on finishing up at naptime.” 

“And something will happen THEN, and so it will be another day, and…” 

“And now the baby’s crying, because I’ve raised my voice. Thanks for that, Kurt.” 

Kurt huffed out in frustration. “This isn’t working. You need to…” 

“What? Give up my little HOBBY of parenting our child?” He crawled across the bed to her and hoisted her into his arms. If her shrieks bothered Kurt, well, that was too bad. 

“That wasn’t what I was going to say. But, honestly, you can parent a child without being with her 24-7.” 

“And then we’d be dealing with cold viruses and stomach bugs and other kids biting her. _None_ of us need that. We’ve had this discussion.” 

“And now we’re having it again.” Kurt was practically yelling over the baby’s cries. 

“No. We’re not,” Blaine retorted, and ended the call viciously, throwing his phone down on the bed. He held Mary Grace close and sat with his back against the headboard, and joined his daughter in some tears of his own.


	4. In Which, Maybe, It Gets Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Klaine Advent 2015 prompt: Time. A nap helps; Blaine works to manage his time--and his self--better.

Blaine blinked awake as the afternoon sun streamed into the hot bedroom. Oscar meowed at him from Kurt’s pillow. For a moment, he was disoriented, then paranoid. “Where the hell’s the baby?” He sat up suddenly, and then became aware of her off to the side, sucking on her bunny’s ears. “What time is it?” 

_2:00 p.m. I wake from an unexpected nap. I don’t know if Gracie slept or not, but she is awake next to me. I just thank God I didn’t drop her out of the bed when I passed out. The last thing I remember I was holding her and we were both crying. At least she stopped. Guess I did something right. She is wet, wet, wet, but our bedding thankfully isn’t. But the clean laundry—even our underwear is wrinkled. Man, you’re gonna be pissed enough when you get home. Crap. I’m going to have to get the iron and ironing board out. There goes the afternoon._

_2:15 p.m. I change her again, then, digging though the hall closet for the ironing supplies, I find her swing. Maybe she’ll like it today. I pop her into it and set it moving and wait, holding my breath. I can’t find my phone, so I start the insipid music on the thing. She gurgles happily; go figure. At least one of us is happy. I go assess the damage to Kurt’s things. There are three pairs of his favorite boxer briefs that ended up in a tangled mess at my feet, and three knit shirts. No, wait. Those are mine. I grab them, as well as some of his short-sleeved button-ups; he (I mean you, of course; forgot I was writing this to you)—YOU will probably want to wear that Eroica print in meetings with the money people next week. I should probably make arrangements to go to those meetings myself. Guess time is growing short; we have to get serious about getting this onto the stage, or we’ll lose the theater._

As he scooped up the clothes, his phone thunked off the bed by his foot. He stuffed the laundry under one arm and checked his notifications as he walked back down the hall. There were five texts from Kurt, the first few angry, but the last had faded to just annoyed. He stood staring at it, sent a quick, **“I’m trying. It HAS been a long day. Talk tonite,”** then tossed the phone on the kitchen counter. He poured himself a tall glass of cucumber water from the fridge, standing in the kitchen considering how he was going to do this. 

He grabbed a notepad and jotted down his To Do List: 

  * Make dinner
  * Iron clothes
  * Read resumes
  * Take care of Gracie—nap?
  * Feed Oscar
  * Write in diary
  * Time for myself—music, exercise?



He started to cross out the last entry, knowing he’d never get to it, but he left it. He just needed to see self-care on the list, needed to remind himself that it was okay to want to take care of himself. 

_2:30 p.m. I’m not sure how long the swing will entertain her. I switch to the kids’ music playlist on my phone, and I sing along. She likes that song about the moon. I press the clothes, tamping down my anxiety about the résumés and whether I have all the ingredients for the honey-balsamic chicken I was planning. No time for groceries now. “Babies are born in a circle of the sun, Circle of the sun on the birthing day…,” I sing. Gracie chortles again, the second laugh I’ve gotten out of her today. I grab the phone, capture her little face and the sound of the belly laugh, and send the video to Kurt. **“LOOK, Daddy. I learned something NEW today! LAUGHTER!”** I hope he doesn’t just take it as more evidence that my day is all fun and games. _

_3:00 p.m. I finish the ironing just as she becomes bored with the swing and my singing. She’s hungry again. I hoist her on my hip and we dance in the kitchen while her bottle warms, her brown eyes serious on my face, even as I swoop and spin. I’m still planning how to cram all my work into the rest of the day. I’m determined to get through this damn job so Kurt doesn’t think I’m not involved in the project. I try sitting with her and giving her the bottle with one hand while scrolling with the other, but she is wriggly in my arms. I stand with her, swaying, and she takes the bottle. My patience is wearing down. “Little Lady, it has been a LONG day. And I know it’s hot, and I HOPE you’re getting tired. But Papa needs some cooperation.” She violently turns her head away from the bottle and arches her back when I try to sit again. I thump the bottle on the counter, dig under her changing table for the Moby Wrap, and tie her to me, then plunk the laptop up on the counter so I can work standing up. I’m back to swaying like in the laundromat, but I’m also holding the bottle for her with one hand while pulling up Charles Rice’s pdfs—he sent a lot of stuff, a long CV, recommendations. I wonder, can we even afford him? I force myself to focus on the play and our needs rather than on my irritation with Gracie. SHE doesn’t know my back is getting sore—or that her Daddy is disappointed in me._

_3:30 p.m. I’m a little dizzy from trying to read while swaying. And I’m sort of disgusting. I burped the baby after half the bottle, and her annoyance expressed itself in a wet splash down my back. I just switch her back into the wrap on the other side—Rachel says it’s better for her eyes to switch sides, and Mama agreed, so—and I swipe at the mess on my shirt with a kitchen towel, not willing to risk losing more time to change. Plus, I’m excited by this guy, and I think Kurt will be too. He worked in queer theatre in Minneapolis, so we won’t have to host a gender studies class for him like with the last few hires. Ugh. I think about sending a text to Kurt with my findings, but that feels a little bit too much like groveling. It was an argument between two very stressed guys, Blaine. Get over it._

The baby had fallen asleep, and Blaine finally lowered himself to sit precariously on the edge of the couch as he unwrapped her. He tested how deep her sleep was by lifting her arm. It dropped, a dead weight, when he let go, and he smiled. He laid her next to him, stretched his back, and looked over his To Do list. He pulled out the little book and caught up on his diary entries, then carried her into the bedroom. 

_4:00 p.m. She’s fallen asleep a little earlier than usual, but I’m not complaining. I lower the shades in our room and lay her in her small crib, brushing her dark curls off her brow when I do. I have so much to do before you come home, but I’m so tired. I love watching her sleep, knowing that we’ve made it through another day without her exhausted Papa dropping her on her head or burning himself with a hot iron or a pot of hot water. God, I could crawl into her crib with her. Instead, I drag the pedestal fan over to cool the room, straighten out the bedding, then finally change my shirt. I trail through the house picking up, Oscar following at my heels._

_4:15 p.m. A breeze kicks up outside and through the open windows in the living room, where I sit with the laptop open and a cup of coffee at my side. Oscar is pressed against my leg, the picture of contentment. I open another résumé; Andrew has experience—but mostly as a music director. I scroll through his stuff, and wish I had worked on some of these projects. I’m still music director for Sea and Sky, right? I open my music file and look over my plans, listening to the scraps I’ve made some sort of start on. I’ve been so frustrated with this. I was full of ideas for Artie’s last project; the compositions just flowed out, but all of my attempts for our score now sound like they’re missing something. Where is life? The sound of a baby girl laughing, crying? The music of the city through my open window? Worse, I hear nothing of Fire Island in this. All I seem to have captured is my exhaustion and my sense of urgency. I am up and pacing before I know what I’m doing, all of my worries and misgivings about this project coming to the fore. I’m caught up in your urgency, feeling the deadline looming, and no time, no time._

Frustrated, he scrolled to the last resume, but left it open without reading it. He grabbed up his phone. Kurt had sent a line of proud dad emojis in response to the video of a laughing Mary Grace. He sighed, feeling the weight of their disagreement lifting. 

**So, proud dad, I’m in the kitchen with a rice cooker and some chicken to marinate.**

_And?_

**Do you have an ETA? Easier to chop and grind without an armful of clinging baby. But don’t want to overcook chik or dry out rice.**

_Maybe 6:30?_

**Noted. Let me know when you are on your way. Lots to talk about.**

_Blaine_

**Youre right. We have to get me more involved and find us some help. We also have to be parents to this child we’ve invited into the world. I just thought we’d have more time.**

_I’m bringing cheesecake._

**I love you.**

He tossed the phone onto the counter and started his dinner prep, aware that he was procrastinating, but giving himself permission. Everything would be better once Kurt got home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be an epilogue to this, but I didn't write one as part of Advent. I planned to, and then decided to just leave Blaine here, at the end of one of those days anyone alone at home with a small child can relate to. We'll see.


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